


Seven Portraits of Percy Weasley

by aliceylain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Sandman
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliceylain/pseuds/aliceylain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My reflection chatters to me about my dreams and desires and destiny, about destruction of those who have broken the law, the delirium of my family and the so-called Order, the incontrovertible death of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Portraits of Percy Weasley

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by two other fanfiction works, [**Black-Eyed Angels**](http://www.geocities.com/wwwhores/thecookiejar/blackeyedangels.txt) by Kim and [**So Many Monsters**](http://www.unfitforsociety.net/musesfool/somanymonsters.htm) by Victoria P. Both stories are better than mine, you'd be better suited following the links and reading theirs.

**1\. "I know how men in exile feed on dreams."**

Dreams are unimportant. Dreams are nonsensical. Dreams are the inventions of weak and idle minds. Daydreams, nightmares, anxiety dreams, it doesn't matter what breed or brand they are. I know that they don't _contribute_. They don't _help_.

But that knowledge, that belief, doesn't stop my subconscious mind, that which I can't control even with magic. I have had dreams upon dreams upon dreams. Ones where I'm running through Hogwarts, naked, followed by the horrible shrieking of laughter. Ones where I'm trying to get to class, just trying to move, and it's like swimming through particularly dense water. Ones where Fred and George play trick after trick on me until I wake, body covered in sweat and jaw clenched.

There are other sorts of dreams, ones that bother me while I'm awake. I try not to dwell too long on them, for they are too seductive. Ones where my reports garner the respect that they deserve. Ones where a colleague, an attractive one, asks me out for drinks and confesses that it was my intelligence that first caught their attention. Ones where the Minister himself whispers into my ear, "You will be a most powerful man someday."

Then there is the dream that I can't even bear to think of for long. Where _they_ are there, and they say, "Sorry, Perce," honestly and genuinely. And they accept my apology as I try to explain what I thought and what happened. They don't cut me off, brush me off, walk away from me rolling their eyes. They listen and they're interested and they want to know why.

I want to know why too. Why they could believe the worst of me. Why they were so very quick to abandon me. Why they think that my ambitions are worth so very much less than theirs. And perhaps most importantly, why they have never bothered to understand my point-of-view.

 **2\. "Your life is your own, Rainie. So is your Death."**

"Right then, ready to go?"

Percy looked up from the still body, crumpled awkwardly on his office floor. "Can't I straighten myself out, maybe drop a cloak over me?"

The woman, dressed in a black dance leotard, pink leg warmers, and running shoes, rolled her eyes. "Oh sure, go ahead. Except _no_ , you _can't_ , because if you _could_ , you wouldn't be _dead_."

"But I look so...undignified."

Death crossed her arms and took a step closer, her ponytail swaying. "Some get a say, some get the time. You didn't. Are you ready to go?"

Percy looked at the silver ankh gleaming around the girl's neck. "No, not really. But it's not a question is it?"

She sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're _supposed_ to take my hand, but I have left others behind before."

His lips curved into a slight smile. "Doomed by decision to be a ghost, perhaps haunting my twin brothers for eternity. It couldn't be all that bad."

"Maybe. C'mon, let's go. I'm a very busy girl and you weren't the only one..." She gestured to his body vaguely.

He stiffened. "My father?"

"It doesn't matter anymore, Percy."

He jerked out of her grasp. "To _you_ , maybe. But I'm still...I've always been...it's always..." Percy struggled with the words and finally ended with a soft "damn."

Death shot him a look. "If you're not going to come with me..."

Percy looked from her to the Ministry hallway, where the sound of fighting could still be heard. "Really I'm...I'll be alright. I'm resourceful. I just can't go yet. I'm not finished."

She leaned in, and took his face in her hands. "Percy, you aren't going to find absolution. _You don't have unfinished business_."

He looked at her steadily. "So you say. But I'm staying."

She sighed and let go. "There is no need for further punishment," Death said softly.

"I said I'm staying."

"Then I'm gone." She hesitated and stooped to tighten her laces. "Percy, I'll try to come back, when I'm not so busy, so if you change your mind..." Death straightened up and gave him one last look. "Take care of yourself." With a blur of pink and black, she was out the door.

Percy looked back down at his body. "You stupid bastard," he whispered.

 **3\. "I should warn you, getting what you want and being happy are two quite different things."**

It was a Christmas Eve party and you went for appearances, because it would have hurt the Minister's cause to not have his Junior-Assistant there. You went, expecting to sit in a chair in a corner, and your expectations were proved correct. You expected no one to acknowledge you except for vague nods and hurried glances, and again you were right. You did not expect the punch you were idly drinking to be alcoholic, nor for your inhibitions to be stripped away so quickly.

It seemed that as you got quietly and unknowingly drunk, you were playing into someone's scheme. _Uptight Percy Weasley, let's see if we can't unravel him a bit_. Maybe the punch was spiked especially for you, maybe it was truly a simple mistake. But soon there were hands pulling at you and you were on the street, being propelled into a seedy building, a Muggle nightclub of some sort. A part of you screamed to be left alone, that it wasn't proper, but the sensible part of you that reigned when sober was given no discourse when drunk.

Lights pierced the darkest corners in a quick fashion, the music was unbearably loud and driving. The dance floor was a seething mass of bodies. In the end, you were settled at the bar with another drink in your hand, this one strongly alcoholic. The booze burned a fiery line down your throat as you sipped.

When it became apparent that you were a quiet drunk, you were left alone by the schemers. _Uptight Percy Weasley, won't even uncurl when plied with enough alcohol to drown a hippogryff_. You clung to the bar, eyes roving, because what else was there to do? And then you saw them and the drink was forgotten.

The girl had long, golden hair, the shortest skirt, from under which tantalizing snippets of her knickers could be seen. She wore a tight halter, and she moved in ways that made you want to curl your hand around your prick. The boy had short brown hair, a stocky muscular build, tight, tight trousers that must have been magically applied. His dancing moves complimented the girl's so completely that you wanted to jerk off to his rhythm of his hips and the way he ground his groin into the girl's ass.

And maybe there was a third person, one of unrecognizable gender, with white, white skin and the darkest hair and eyes like gold but the alcohol was really in your veins now and the third one kept appearing and disappearing in a way that convinced you that he/she must have been Apparating and the club wasn't very Muggle after all.

From there, everything broke down into a scattered and confused time line. You were lurking at the edge of the dance floor, eyes glued to their undulations and thrusts to the bass line. Someone was kissing you, pushing their tongue past the borders of your lips, and squeezing your groin with a comfortable ease. There was dancing and you were surrounded by bodies and blond hair and muscled arms and tawny eyes boring into the core of you. Clothes were lost, your clothes were gone and you must have been back at the apartment then, your apartment, you must have invited them back to your place. There was a wink and a dirty public bathroom and someone's mouth was on your prick and someone else was fondling your balls and an arm was around your shoulders and never in your wildest dreams had anything ever felt so good and wet.

Hands caressed you and there were tongues and the twining of limbs. There were awkward positions and panting and someone was thrusting into you while you were thrusting into someone else and your nipple was pinched and you came with a strangled cry. It was so obscene that you couldn't help wanting to fuck with them over and over and over, and so you did with the third watching from the corner. The white skin glowed so and you could hear chuckles over the wet sounds and groans.

The next morning, you were left with a pounding headache and sheets that stank of come and perspiration. You searched in the bed, wincing, trying to find evidence of blond or brown hair, something beyond the anonymous spots of wets and occasional stain of blood. There were no hairs besides red, no forgotten scrap of underwear, no note, no explanation, no attempt at farewell.

It was Christmas morning and you didn't know what was real and what was imagined but you spent the rest of the day in bed fisting your prick, muttering desire desire desiredesiredesire.

 **4\. "The same ambition can destroy or save/ And makes a patriot as it makes a knave."**

The moment the words left his mouth, Percy knew there was no salvaging the situation.

He wasn't quite sure how the conversation had unraveled so. It was supposed to be about Percy's promotion, how his success would reflect positively on the family and bring status to their reputation. It was not supposed to be about deceit and lies and a long dead evil coming back to life. It was not supposed to be about criticism. But his father, his _father_ , had intimated that he had secured his position not from hard work, but from family ties...

"The reason, _father_ , that we are poor is because you never, ever, had enough ambition to do anything about it!"

The stunned look had quickly changed to anger, and there was no going back. The rest of the fight was the resolution, the downfall from the climax and his leaving was inevitable. He could almost imagine a sword in his hands, cutting ribbons, ropes, chains into infinitesimal pieces, as he packed his belongings hurriedly. His mum hovered around the doorway, wringing her hands, trying to right the unimaginable wrong. "But Percy, please sit down...let's talk about this...your father was upset and you certainly didn't mean...you don't mean any of this certainly..."

Throwing the rest of his robes into his old school trunk, Percy whirled round. "Mother, I certainly did and do mean it and I am tired of watching my family destroy themselves by following a doddering wizard who does nothing about this supposed evil situation. If You-Know-Who was truly back, why doesn't Dumbledore find and kill him, since he's such a powerful wizard?"

His mum fish-mouthed as he levitated the trunk and stepped angrily out into the hall. It followed him, bobbing silently, as he trampled down the stairs, past wide-eyed Ginny, red-faced Ron, the glaring twins. He bypassed the kitchen entirely and marched out of the Burrow, nose in the air, wand clenched in his fist.

He was not going to be made a fool of by blindly accepting his family's choices. He was not going to be destroyed with them.

 **5\. "Delirium is the youngest of the endless [...] Her realm is close, and can be visited; however, human minds were not made to comprehend her domain, and those few who have made the journey have been incapable of reporting back more than the tiniest fragments."**

When the Hogwarts Express slowed to a halt, the prefects were immediately concerned. Percy was more indignant than worried; how dare their progress to the school be impeded! Then the lights went out, and after a hurried discussion, Percy pulled rank and told everyone, including Penelope, to stay in the prefects' carriage. He, as Head Boy, would find out what the situation was, and assist the Professors and train conductor as needed.

Feeling a bit put out that he wasn't notified beforehand of stops, Percy stepped authoritatively out into the corridor. He shut the door behind him with a snap, and turned to enter the conductor's carriage.

The door opened up underneath his fingers and Percy began to demand why exactly the Hogwarts Express had stopped. His indignation sputtered to a halt as he suddenly registered the sharp chill in the air. A tall, cowled figure took a step closer to Percy and...

 _his mum was sobbing and ginny was squalling and ron was shrieking while the twins could only whimper and there were thuds and cracks and screams outside and almost inside and someone bad wanted in and mum's arms weren't big enough to hold him and ron and ginny and he was silent and all he could think was we're gonna die we're gonna die we're gonna diediedie_

...and Percy was sitting on the floor, the floor of all things. His cheeks were cold and he felt dazed. Penelope was leaning over him, shaking his shoulder and abruptly he was horribly embarrassed. Head Boys did not fall into useless crumples on the floor. Head Boys kept order, assisted students and professors alike, protected the integrity and safety of Hogwarts. The Head Girl was shaking him and he was just sitting there, trying to feel the ends of his fingers.

"Wh - wha - what happened," Percy managed to force out through his chattering teeth, a sour taste in his mouth.

"You visited me," said the girl with the rainbow-colored hair at his side.

"I don't know," Penelope said, looking at him closely. "You left and it was unbearably cold and I felt so queer. It was so _sinister_. But it went away and I came out here to find you and you were on the floor." She paused. "Percy, did someone _attack_ you?"

"I - " Percy shifted his gaze from Penelope to the girl sitting beside him. He noticed she had mismatched eyes: one was blue and one was green. She broke into a smile at his stare and waggled her fingers at him. "Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret, one, two, three, four! Did I set out the tea right?"

Percy had a sensation of vertigo and colors swirled before his eyes. Then his shoulders were shaken again and chocolate shoved under his nose. An older man, a professor, was encouraging him to eat and Penelope looked so _worried_. As he chewed the chocolate awkwardly, the strange girl leaned towards him, her edges fuzzing. She smiled as the faded parts started breaking off into translucent, striped fish.

"I won't see you again, but my sisters will and watch out for the twins because one's ice-cream tastes of paper and the other's tastes of heartache, and thank you for dusting the china. And don't forget to be kind to doggies!"

With that last exclamation, she was all fish and they swam up and through the train ceiling. Percy finished his chocolate and was helped upright. All three of them went to see the train conductor and Percy forgot nearly everything, except for shifting colors and the taste of bile in his throat and the feeling of being very small and afraid.

 **6\. "If you create an act, you create a habit. If you create a habit, you create character. If you create a character, you create a destiny."**

 _Prefects Who Gained Power_ was his roadmap, his plan, his meat and potatoes. He had found it in his first year at Hogwarts, the slim novel tucked back in the dusty stacks of the library. He would read it while walking on the Hogwarts grounds, curling his arms around it and clutching it to his chest as he wandered through the hedges. He idolized the book so much, he spent much of his free time copying it, by hand, so that he would have a copy for himself.

In bookshops, he often found himself hunting for it. It was an old book, out-of-print, and from what he could tell, not wildly popular when it was published, so not many copies had been made.

There were ten prefects highlighted, each of whom had attained spectacular success. Three of them had become Ministers of Magic, impeccable examples of fairness and justice. One had become a Chief Healer at St. Mungo's, another the Headmaster at Hogwarts. Four had become Aurors of incredible bravery and renown while the last had become a brilliant innovator, a developer of several indispensable Charms.

It was there, it was all there. All he had to do was work hard, follow the steps those prefects had taken, and he could be anything he wished. It was an exciting thought, invigorating, all those possible roads that he could simply choose to walk down.

After careful thought in the beginning of his second year, he decided that he would become a Minister of Magic. The Ministry was a monolith of rules, which he already followed meticulously. His father was in the Ministry, so he would have support as he traveled the path upward. As Minister, he would be able to _affect change_ , and _right wrongs_. It would be absolutely grand and his family would be so proud of him.

Studying the chapters on the three Ministers, he wrote down detailed steps to his success. First, achieve top grades and become a model student. That was easy to do. Next, be named Prefect, as the title of the book suggested. Furthermore, be named Prefect both fifth and sixth year. Getting top O.W.L.s. was a breeze compared to the anxiety he felt waiting for his Prefect letter both times. But that was nothing compared to the nail-biting agony of the summer before his seventh year.

When he was awarded with the position of Head Boy, he thought it must have been his destiny that he had found _Prefects Who Gained Power_ at such an early age. He was certainly on his way to becoming somebody important, and despite his disappointment that his family was not as proud as he thought they'd be, he believed his future success was already sealed.

 **7\. "Despair says little and is patient."**

The mornings are easiest. The mornings are all about brisk efficiency. My reflection chatters to me about my dreams and desires and destiny, about destruction of those who have broken the law, the delirium of my family and the so-called Order, the incontrovertible death of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. My reflection is quick to point out stray lint on my robes or a hair that is out of place. It is comforting, a sort of pep talk that prepares me for the long day ahead.

The evenings are entirely different.

I take my shower, shrug into my pajamas and bathrobe, and pick up my toothbrush. I avoid eye contact with the mirror reflection that never says one word in the evenings. I don't acknowledge that it isn't my reflection at all, this naked woman with eyes like glass and skin like paste. I ignore the mist and the rats and the hook, the hook that never stops silently ripping jagged bloody furrows in the woman's skin. I ignore it all because acknowledging her might mean thinking about the knives in the kitchen or a fall from a broom, and Junior-Assistants to the Minister of Magic simply don't think about those things. It isn't seemly.

Then I go to my bedroom, where there are no mirrors, and now I can hear the hook. The sound is both wet and rough as it tears the woman's skin and not even humming drowns it out. I turn off the light and huddle under the covers, trying not to hear. Trying not to think.

Rip. You were wrong. Rip. They were right. Rip. The Minister was wrong. Rip. How was the Minister wrong? Rip. How could he mislead you? Rip. How could you be misled? Rip. Why didn't anyone try to tell you the truth? Rip. But they did, didn't they? Rip. And you didn't believe them. Rip. You didn't believe your family. Rip. You were wrong. Rip. They were right. Rip. You were wrong. Rip. But you can't go back. Rip. Because of what you said. Rip. Because you really did mean it. Rip. Because you're a git. Rip. Because you're a pompous git. Rip. Because you're a pompous git who was so very wrong. Rip. Because you're a pompous git who has done things that are so very wrong.

Rip. The kitchen. Rip. The knives. Rip. The bathroom. Rip. The bathtub. Rip. The bed. Rip. The pillow. Rip. Your night table. Rip.Your wand. Rip. The window. Rip. Your wand. Rip. Your wand. Ripyourwandripyourwandripriprip.

The mornings are easiest. My reflection has started commenting on the dark circles, the reddened eyes. He says that a Junior-Assistant should be nothing but alert to deal with all incoming problems. I agree and carefully apply charms to hide the effect. It wouldn't do to have others know or even guess about the woman in the mirror, about the hook, about my mistakes and failures. It wouldn't do at all.

 **Quote Attributations:**

"I know how men in exile feed on dreams."  
\- Aeschylus

"Your life is your own, Rainie. So is your death."  
\- Death, _Dream Country_ by Neil Gaiman

"I should warn you, getting what you want and being happy are two quite different things."  
\- Desire, _Endless Nights_ by Neil Gaiman

"The same ambition can destroy or save/ And makes a patriot as it makes a knave."  
\- Alexander Pope, _The Epistles: Of the Nature and State of Man, with Respect to Himself as an Individual_

"Delirium is the youngest of the endless [...] Her realm is close, and can be visited; however, human minds were not made to comprehend her domain, and those few who have made the journey have been incapable of reporting back more than the tiniest fragments."  
\- _Season of Mists_ by Neil Gaiman

"If you create an act, you create a habit. If you create a habit, you create character. If you create a character, you create a destiny."  
\- André Maurois

"Despair says little and is patient."  
\- Despair, _Season of Mists_ by Neil Gaiman  



End file.
